meta fiction: Ghostwriter

Search: Ghostwriter for love letters project
Tags: #ghostwriting #love #letters #project #pay

I'm looking for help in writing a long and detailed love letter to be mailed to my too-be-fiance... This is an urgent project that I need to have started ASAP. Serious inquiries only. Thank you.

Keyword: ghostwriting love pay project 



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 Remember him, as I do. Mother whispers to me. She lights the candles and brushes up the dried flowers. The petals crack around the edge and fall to the floor with dust. Ten years, ten years since father passed away. Mother prepares breakfast, leftovers from yesterday with orange juice, and I rearrange the table. Her eyesight is failing her. I wipe the bits and pieces of food scraps off the plate. Time waits for no one, she tells me. 

 She hopes I will be able to remember father the way she does. I wouldn't know of course, if he was gentle, stern, or sweet. I wouldn't know if he was tall, stout, or willowy. All I know is that I don't know him that well; I've never met him. All she tells me about father is of roses. Roses so white they made the first born snow look bleak in contrast, so soft and sweet to the touch as layers of sugar. They're beautiful, but they never last. She always ends her rambling with a wistful note. 


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 I didn't have the courage to outright ask you, and I've never had a way with words as you do. This is my favor to you. If you do remember me and our beautiful days together, please wait for me with a bouquet full of white roses.

-J-

-

A letter.

 All that remains of father is a letter. I've never heard mother say his name; he's always J or 'him', nothing more or less. I shuffle through the letters, all pressed neatly in a box. Some letters have wrinkles, as my mother's eyes do. Creases left by time that can never be erased. They crinkle under my palm, papery and light.

 The very last letter on top of all others is my favorite. It hasn't paled like others; I can still smell the perfume off the paper- something mint, I think. When I unfold the neatly folded letter, dried flowers fall out of it as if April was just yesterday. Petals gray from time, but they're still flowers. I gather them around the inside of my palm. 

 This letter, the very last one delivered from my father to my mother, is a delicate piece. Just a few nights before their marriage father sent this letter, past the bright city lights to the little hillside mother used to live. I take my phone out and take a picture. Romantic to the bone, there were some great lines to reuse. 

This December, do you remember? 

 A sentence catches my eye, and look up. My eyes are fixed on the window pane. This December. Winter is here, but the cold never seeps inside; with the fire always crackling and the hearth warm, the cold has no place here. 

 Snow, white and fluffy, is piling up outside flake by flake. Like a snap of a finger, that sight alone brings me back to reality. Memories forged through the letter fades to the back of my mind. It's an ordinary Saturday morning.; no time to waste. 

 11:30. Numbers burn inside my eyes. I hastily stand up and leave for the car. My pocket buzzes and I know it's my phone- my work. The letter remains open on the floor. The petals inside my palm fall out and scatter to the wooden floor. A beautiful mess of brown and gray.  

I open the door. Snowflakes, falling like Cherry Blossoms. I don't bother to pick up the phone; it's him; I don't need to look to know. The engine revs up to life, and I'm off. The house disappears behind me. My client is waiting for me.

-

She leaves the house, her footsteps slightly jerky- she takes just after her father. His name, that three steps down the tongue, never fades. She smiles meekly upon entering the room. She bends down and gingerly picks up the letter. The f is slightly slanted, and the o  is never a complete circle. She’d read the letter so many times, held it close to her heart, she knew the handwriting by heart.

That's how she knew on the day of the wedding, her groom-to-be wrote a stiff f, with a perfect o. 

Lies. Later she found out how he never was a good writer. Never read Shakespeare, never the one for romantic stunts either: he simply did not care. A man of action, not words. Not of sweet utterance, but swift action. Help me write, he said. Pay you back, he added. With a small photo of her and a pen in hand, yes, he said. He, who shall remain in the back of her mind, never prominent, but always there.

 She fell in love with the man behind the letter and married the man whose name was written on the cover. So naturally, on the day to sign their names to seal the marriage, by law and by vow, she knew.

She just knew.

No wonder she doesn’t speak his name, ever.

-

Google search: Ghostwriter

Did you mean: Ghostrider

Wikipedia: 

A ghostwriter is a person who is hired to author books, manuscripts, screenplays, speeches, articles, songs, blog posts, stories, reports,  or other texts that are officially credited to another person. 

-

 He's already there, his face the color of raw meat. I bet my face looks the same-the cold was more brutal than I imagined. He stands up, and inches forward, his footsteps ever so careful. Over the weeks, he's definitely grown. Starting from the top of his head, my eyes travel down to the tip of his toes. It's a long way, longer than I remember. Pieces of him here and there stands out, and draws my eyes-eyes that I thought were long dead and dull. My eyes trail him: 

                 Ruffled red hair

                   

                  Black Scarf Ar

                      ound his

                   neck 

sleeves            A Beige Sweater                    so long they 

cover                                                half of his hands 

           

                jet black pants

                  tight 

                         fitting 

                    as

                       ever

             Brown         Boots

 With a cough he brings my eyes back up to his. He sits in front of me, his face expectant. How much have you written, he asks. Not much. My answer is brief. Show me, he opens up his palm. I hand it to him. 

Dear Carol

This is Jake. Jake from Deep Cove, that little town with Cherry blossoms and apple trees if you remember. That town where nothing happens, and nothing really changes. I know that you might not remember me. After all, I'm Jake, that little boy with red-brown hair from that rickety old mansion up the mountains. But if I were to tell you one thing about me, something to renew the colors in your memory, we had fond memories here and there.  I still remember the dazzling city lights, cars whooshing by, and girls and boys in absolutely stunning dresses and suits walking hand in had. And that sound of trumpets rising to a crescendo, and the beats of the drums marching with elegance and gravity as the lights went down- these things I will never forget. I swear with all my heart, that I have never forgotten that day. I dare did not. That day seemed to have taken complete hold of me with all its sheer brilliance and beauty. Even now, as I'm writing this to you on my way to the city I can see the glittering lights.

Love, Jake

 Sorry dad. A blatant rip off of his letter to mother. I keep my eyes down and play with my fingers. Jake, ever so simple and happy, smiles. He takes the letter with me and leaves. He pats me on back when he does. keep up the good work. I'll pay you back soon, he says. I simply nod. 

-

 Another week passes by. Jake pays me back, and I buy mother a new sundress. She seems happier even though we're right in the middle of a harsh winter. 

 Another moment, and it strikes me that she doesn't know that I exist at all. To her I'm Jake. That thought strikes me and I stay all night shifting restlessly in bed. 

All the while, another letter is due. 

-

Hey T

When will the letter be complete? 

She's texting me constantly asking me when there'll be more.

-J-

2016-12-19-AM10:30

I delete the text.

-

 I brush up the letter, proofread it, and hand it over to Jake. He smiles and pats me on the back again. 

To me, it's just another brilliant rip-off from dad's love letters, but Jake seems to be more than happy. I lean back and take a sip, all the while listening to Jake ramble on about how she seems to have fallen for him completely. She's fallen for me, not you. I'm almost about to correct him, bite him back as hard as I can, but nothing comes out. I simply nod, smile, and take a sip. That last sip leaves a bitter taste. 

 I'm on the train to go to you. I couldn't help myself. I just had to write this letter to 

you. Out of the window, I see these beautiful butterflies we used to catch up the hills. 

 I smell the breezes that we used to smell lying in the grasses, eating cherries. I can see 

the memories and the promises we swore to keep. This December, do you remember?

He reads the letter again. 

When do you think I should visit her? 

Why would you have to?

It says in the letter right here that I'm going to...

 For childhood sweethearts and soon to be lovers, Jake is clueless to Carol. For a moment, I wonder if he even knows her name Carol, of how she hates it when people pronounce the 'a' too harshly. Carol, her name is. That delicate roll my tongue makes when her name presses upon my lips. I sit there explaining how Carol, being who she is, would come to him instead. 

 How do you know her so well, he exclaims. I know that's not a question because his eyes light up into a leafy green when he does so. How sweet, he grins and nods at me. She’s going to love this. 

 If you really love her, you shouldn’t, I bite of the sentence and stand up. Bright lights, big city. How she would feel when the lights were as artificial as they could be. This December, do you remember. The sentence catches up to me. The layers that lie between her and I, seems to multiply. 

 Jake, the supposed writer knows that she's around twenty two. She's quite tall, but not petite. She's blond, but not that blond. She has two cats, Jay and Mimi. She loves summer and wishes there was no winter in this world even at the sake of sacrificing Christmas. She has two siblings, both boys. They have dimples on the tip of their nose, just like she does. 

And she too, can't take her mind off of me. You. That you in the letter. Me. 

-

I'm wondering if you remember that promise and if you'd like to have a day with me like old times. My life doesn't have any sparkles you breathed into my life. I can't inhale it anymore, no more than the lingering that you left inside me. I question every day: why is my life no longer sweet and cheerless without you? Perhaps the town life is too static and unchanging for me. Perhaps I'm too old to wait for inspiration and dreams. Perhaps, I miss you too much than I can bear.

 I didn't have the courage to outright ask you, and I've never had a way with words as you do. This is my favor to you. If you do remember me and our beautiful days together, please wait for me with a bouquet full of white roses.

-J-

-

The letter was sent, and she was to meet with him. Two lovers set apart by time. This December, we’d build a camp fire by the frozen lake. This December, I’d treat you to the best day of your life. This December, I’d greet you with a bouquet of White Roses. Isn’t it winter, might one ask. But baby this is LA, and the sun never really goes down.

Yes, she said. Why of course.

She was, after all, quite fond of all love's folly. 

-

For her, the man behind the letter never came. The man with the name instead came, and that December, no one really remembered.

-

I sit at my desk. The light outside is dim. The fireplace is lit, and snow is falling. Mother is sleeping. All is quiet. I step outside and tiptoe to her room. I open the box and pick up the letter again.

  No wonder mother fell for you hard, so hard that she married you right off. She cried her eyes out when she sealed off the marriage when you signed your name next to hers. That perfect o, that swift f and that handwriting that was so much lighter than that of your letter.

Were you nervous? Was your love for her so overwhelming? Is that why your handwriting was so different?

-

search: Ghostwriter

page 1/2

Sometimes the ghostwriter is acknowledged by the author or publisher for his or her writing services, euphemistically called a "researcher" or "research assistant", but often the ghostwriter is not credited.

-

 My phone buzzes. I don’t have to check to know who it is. Jake, what is it. I know my tone is biting but I couldn't care less. All of this, is going to be over soon. Jake and Carol as newlyweds, together forever, and me with the letters. 

 How much is the letter complete? he asks again. I snap back, telling him to wait. The call ends and I hastily add the last paragraph. She would surely enjoy this piece, and I know my work is done. Finally. 

-

She told me that she loves me, Jake’s voice rushes in over the phone.

My heart thuds at that- crashes downwards. She loves me. I almost blurt out.

Be good to her, alright? I tell him. On the other sid, he scoffs, and breaks into a fit of laughter. You've never even met her. What are you, like, in love with her? As usual, laughing at his own joke. 

 I cast my eyes downwards, on the table. The letter begins. This is Jake. Love, Jake. The letter ends. My work is done. Right, have a nice day with her Jake, I swallow my words. This letter that has been going between the both of us, with me behind the letter, and you clueless, has been nice. I think I might even miss it. He again asks me how much the letter is completed. Yes, is my answer. Five seconds of silence and he bursts out laughing. We promise to meet each other at the cafe. You hand me the letter, I pay you, Deal? he tells me for the twentieth time. Yes, is my answer again. 

I turn the radio on.  The Doors are playing. Hello, I love you.

You've never even met her. What are you, like, in love with her?

Hello, I love you 

can I jump in your game

I turn the radio off.

-

Hey T

CHANGE OF PLANS

She's coming sooner than expected

Do you remember what flower I'm supposed to give her 

TEXT ME BACK ASAP

-J-

2016-12-27 AM10:30

-

I shuffle through the letters I've written. Should I be glad I've kept a copy of all my letters, I do not know. After reviewing letter to letter, I realize I never got any replies. Something so obvious can hit you so hard. I sit still, breathing in the hazy afternoon sunlight. 

I never got a letter back from Carol. It's all Jake to Carol. 

I go back to my desk and open up the letter, the very last letter to seal the deal, as Jake often says.

Love, 

Jake.

 This is how the letter ends, how it is supposed to end.  

Love. 

I erase Jake. 

I leave the letter there. 

-

White roses. Roses so white they made the first born snow look bleak in contrast, so soft and sweet to the touch as layers of sugar. They're beautiful, but they never last. I sound wistful. I know the answer so well, yet something inside me twists. 

-

Red Roses

Obviously

-T-

2016-12-28 AM 10:30

-

And here they say that a person consists of desires,

and as is his desire, so is his will;

and as is his will, so is his deed;

and whatever deed he does, that he will reap.

— Brihadaranyaka Upanishad, 7th Century BCE

-

 What happens next is something so obvious.  The ending to their December: they fell apart. Winter was here to stay.  Red to White. Carol caught up easily; she didn't know exactly what, how and why, but she just knew. 

The letter sits on my desk, useless now. The lover birds has flown apart.  I too, sit there, useless now.

-

Love,

-

 I pick up the letter. Throw it away, I tell myself. I iron them neatly with my palm and sit down, I never can seem to agree with myself. 

-

 Love. 

-

I stop there again. The name lingers on the tip of my fingers, and for a moment I’m tempted to write my name there instead.

And I've never been good at overcoming temptation.

Like a tide, desire washes over me, and I scribble to replace his with mine.

 I write. The L thick and strong, the T soft and swift.

I add an extra paper. A little explanation for you. Yes, you. 

My hands are moving even before I can think

I don't change the words, because I know, that she'll know the moment she receives the letter. 

I've never met you and you don;t know that I exist

But we know each other inside out

You know that I cannot stand the sound of trumpets

You know that my favorite late night tea is a spoonful of honey dipped and nicely mixed with hot milk

You know that my favorite day is Wednesday, because it's just right in the middle of the weekdays

You know what my favorite song is 

You know me

You grew up in the suburbs

Your favorite time of the day is morning, but you never really tell anyone 

Your favorite drink is raw strawberry mixed with fresh milk

I know you

The letter begins. Dear Carol.

The letter ends.  Love, Therese Belivet.

-

Love,

Therese Belivet.

I sent the letter.

This is how it ends.